Instant Family (Silver Oak Medical Center Book 4)

by Aiden Bates

  Brantley thought Harper deserved an Academy Award for the way she didn't roll her eyes or laugh. "That's right! We're all girls together."

  "Let's go build something." And Alaina took both of their hands and led them over to some outdoor foam blocks they'd gotten her.

  Brantley would have liked to sit near his parents for dinner, but the kids were having none of it. Alaina, in particular, wanted to sit with Nan. Brantley took his usual seat near Allen with a rueful smile. He would have plenty of time to sit with his parents. They were together again. They would be together for a very long time, if he had anything to say about it.

  The two families were a little stiff at first, or at least the adults were. That was normal. They were strangers who'd been in different countries only the day before. Then Isabel broke the ice. "So," she said, leaning forward. "Brantley tells me you're a teacher?"

  "Yes. I was, before I retired." Mama nodded. "I taught English. And you?"

  "I'm a nurse." Isabel looked around. "I think everyone in the family, except my husband, works for Silver Oak."

  Brantley's father frowned. "Don't you get tired of one another?"

  Jim laughed. "You have no idea."

  That broke the tension. They talked as they ate, and then when dessert came around, they ate some more. The kids ran off some of the food they'd eaten, and Brantley pretended he hadn't caught his father sneaking stuffed shells to Sadie under the table.

  The Fryes and Zarellis stayed a little later than they intended, enjoying the evening air on the back deck, but they headed home before they wore out their welcome. They didn't want to overtax the Powells' energy after their flight. Mom and Dad were looking a little beat, so Brantley was thankful for their courtesy.

  He escorted everyone out to their cars, and then he and Allen put the kids to bed. Nan and Da helped, which sent both children into paroxysms of delight that almost derailed the whole bedtime process. Nan and Da's arrival was better than Christmas.

  Allen headed down to the kitchen to clean up. Brantley headed to the in-law apartment, to check on his parents before leaving them alone for the night. "I just wanted to say how happy I am that you're finally here," he said. His voice sounded a little ragged, but that was just from emotion.

  His mother caught him up in a giant hug. "We're beyond happy, Brantley. I see everything you've done, everything you've built."

  "It's a nice house, Mama." He grinned. "I'm glad you like it."

  "Not that. It is a nice house," his father said, coming over to join in the embrace. "You've built such a beautiful life for yourself. Your family is amazing. Your children are little rays of sunshine, both of them. Your husband knows you hung the moon all by yourself."

  "I've been very lucky." Brantley ducked his head.

  "You've earned it," his mother told him, and kissed his cheek. "You've earned every last bit of it."

  Brantley relaxed into the hug for a moment, and then he went to go find his husband. The morning had held something of a promise for both of them, and he wanted to see if it was still there.

  <<<<>>>>

  Preview Chapter: Rock The Cradle

  Derek glanced at the monitor. Only one more minute to go on this song and then he'd have to talk again. Lord, he was sick of the Fair. It was hot, and it was crowded, and if one more redneck came up and demanded the clearly labeled "modern rock" booth play George Strait, Derek was going to barf on their shoes.

  "Hey Lindsey, you think you could go get me some water or something? This booth is like a steam bath." He fished five bucks out of his pocket.

  Lindsey, an intern from the University, rolled her eyes and curled her lip. "I could get you a daiquiri. Those are nice and icy."

  "No booze, thanks. Besides, booze in this mess would be bad news anyway." The timer ticked down. "Hey, happy campers, welcome back to WWTF, coming at you live from the Great New York State Fair. This is DJ Derek bringing you all the best in modern rock. It's a beautiful day out here at your fairgrounds here in Solvay. We've got a good crowd out here already, but the sun is bright so wear your sunblock. I already saw a guy who missed a spot here and there, let me tell you, he will be going home alone tonight." Lindsey obligingly added a "womp-womp" sound effect.

  "Anyway, we've got some new tunes from Muse, Foo Fighters, and Royal Blood, but first we’ve got some words from our sponsors. I know, I know, no one likes commercials, but they're literally paying for the content we bring you. So sit tight, have a cold drink, and we'll be back in a couple."

  He pulled back his headphones and turned off his mic. "Fun times."

  Lindsey took the five dollars he'd given her and ran off. He hoped she would bring back something he could drink.

  While he waited, he queued up the music he wanted to play. Some stuff he had to add. He didn't mind having Foo Fighters in heavy rotation. If he never had to hear another Red Hot Chili Peppers song again, he would die a happy man. Sure, they'd been around a long time, and that was awesome for them, but if they couldn't record a song that didn't sound like every other RHCP song, maybe they should just quit.

  Another monitor flashed. That was his news wire. Awesome. More talking. For a second, he wondered if he could get away with waiting until the next three song set got finished, but no. Some of this news needed to be read, especially the traffic report.

  "Okay, folks," he said, as the commercials drew to a close. "I know I promised you music, and we'll get that Muse song out to you right away, but there's some stuff here that you do need to know. There's been an accident on 690 as you're heading to the Fair. It's a bad one. The entire highway is shut down while they try to land a MedFlight bird in there, so good luck with that. Anyway, my advice to you would be to find a way around. You've all got GPS and stuff, you know how it's done. The weather report is hot, in the low nineties, with high humidity because it's August in Syracuse. In the news, the President is back on twitter after a twenty-four hour hiatus. I'm not reading that. Sorry. And here we go. Enjoy."

  He did feel sorry for anyone stuck in traffic behind that wreck, and for anyone involved in the wreck, too. Sometimes it just sucked to be on the roads. Syracuse had its moments, but he'd never seen traffic here the way it had been back in LA.

  He set up another queue and looked out at the crowd. Most people ignored the booth. It didn't worry him. WWTF was the second most popular station in the city, as far as advertisers were concerned, and that wasn't counting their online audience. Streaming didn't work for all radio stations, but it was good for them.

  No, people at the Fair just had plenty of other stimuli to keep them occupied. Derek could count ten vendors in his line of sight, hawking everything from fried dough to "Mexican" ponchos made in Vietnam. Everyone had music blaring. The Powers That Be at WWTF had paid a lot of money to have a booth at the Fair, but as far as Derek could tell, it didn't get them any advantage at all.

  He took out his phone and texted Amadi. Amadi's station had a booth over near the Wine Court, not too far from the main entrance. I'm melting into a pool of ink and sweat. Send help.

  There's no help for you. Amadi had no compassion. At least you haven't had some drunk dump a wine slushy on your shirt yet.

  Derek cringed. That's gross.

  And sticky.

  Derek shrugged. At least it was cool, but Amadi was right. It probably was sticky, and it would stain. Plus, Amadi wasn't going to be able to go around and enjoy the Fair afterward if he had a sticky, stained shirt.

  He sat back and watched the crowd for a little while. A confused old man came up and asked him to play something by Sammy Davis, Jr. Derek pretended to think about it. He liked Sammy Davis, Jr., truth be told. He'd have a hard time slipping him or anyone else from his genre into the playlists he got paid to produce here, but that didn't take away from the singer’s talent.

  As he watched the crowd, he noticed a teenaged girl running through the crowd. She might have been about fifteen, if Derek was any judge. Her skin was brown, and that was the first thing he noti
ced about her. The second thing he noticed was the bruising at her throat. Her long, dark hair streamed out behind her as she tore through the crowd. She didn't care if she knocked people over or made them angry.

  She had no shoes on her feet. That pavement was hot. Derek knew it was hot. It was so hot it radiated heat back, making the air seem to warp and shimmer. No one should be barefoot on that pavement. It didn't seem to bother the girl at all.

  Two men were chasing her. Their faces—pale, with blond beards and stubby noses—had been twisted into masks of rage. Derek didn't know what the situation was, but if it was enough to send a girl like that out onto pavement like this without her shoes, it was enough that he couldn't just stand idly by.

  He was alone in the booth. There wasn't anyone to help him with a cover story. Oh well. He'd always been good about thinking on his feet.

  He grabbed the mic and cut into the music—another Chili Peppers song, so no big loss there. "Hey, folks! It looks like we've got a winner for our first big giveaway of the day! We've got two winners, chosen at random, and we've got you! Yes, you in the black tee shirt, with the black jeans, with the giant Confederate flag belt buckle. Why yes, you sir! With the lovely, downy blond beard you're sporting! Why don't you come on up here and claim your prize?"

  Those men wouldn't have stopped. Not just for Derek's voice. Derek didn't expect them to. The crowd, though, turned around to look. Everyone wanted to see a winner. Everyone loved prizes, and everyone wanted to know what winners had that they didn't have. The crowd near the booth stopped still, refusing to move.

  They forgot about the girl, who could now dodge past them with impunity.

  The two men had to stop. Everyone was staring at them. Their faces turned bright red. "Thanks, but no thanks," said the man who'd "won." His companion, who looked enough like him to be related, scanned the crowd. "We're busy."

  "Oh come on!" Derek said, mind racing. Underneath the desktop, he fumbled for his phone. The monitor that showed his official Twitter accounts and Facebook account showed confusion. Are you having a stroke? Are you sick? Did something happen?

  He texted Amadi. Send police ASAP.

  "There's a prize, bro! Valuable prizes! Everyone loves prizes." There were no prizes. The corporation that owned WWTF was way too cheap to shell out for prizes, especially when the station's audience was considered locked in.

  "Damn it, Bill, the little bitch got away." The second man tapped the first on the arm. "Come on, let's get out of here before they come looking. We can find another one."

  Derek didn't need to think twice about the implications of that statement. "But your prizes!" Off in the distance, he could see a little knot of people in gray uniforms heading their way. Either the running girl had found help, or Amadi had gotten the attention of some State Troopers pretty quickly.

  Unfortunately, the two crooks had noticed the Staties, too. "Damn it." The first turned to him. "You set us up, you skinny son of a bitch." He reached into his waistband. "You're going down for that."

  Derek's entire world narrowed until there was nothing left but the barrel of the gun Redneck One pointed at him. "Hey now." He kept the mic on. "There's no need for violence here, Bill. What is that, a .45? I bet it's a .45. Is it a Colt? My dad loved Colts." He had to keep talking. The mic was his only weapon. He didn't have anything else he could use to defend himself.

  Not that he was only concerned about himself. The crowd around him was huge right now. The cops who were walking toward him needed to know what they were dealing with. They needed to keep the crowd safe.

  "You don't need to worry about the brand of gun. It's still going to kill you all the same." Bill fired.

  Derek threw himself to the floor of the booth. He heard the bullet hit the wall just where his head had been.

  People screamed and ran, all around the booth. People did tend to panic when guns started going off around them. It was a natural human reaction. Derek knew he was panicking. He lay on the ground, gasping for air, and prayed for the first time since he'd been a kid that he'd get out of this alive.

  "What are you, some kind of coward?" Bill was athletic. He jumped up onto the tabletop and aimed down at Derek. Now this had to be the end for him. Derek had no place to go from here. The booth was barely wide enough to move chairs. "You cost me a girl, you got the police called on me, now you're trying to hide in here? You're a giant pansy."

  Derek threw the first thing that came to his hand. It was one of Lindsey's giant platform shoes. She changed them when she needed to run and do things, as opposed to Being Seen. The distinction hadn't made much sense to Derek, and it didn't make sense now, but he didn't care. As long as he survived, he'd be fine.

  The shoe hit Bill in the eye. He staggered and fell into the booth, landing on top of Derek. Derek felt a few of his ribs give, and he grunted. That wasn't going to be fun. Bill was a big guy.

  Bill heard him grunt and pushed himself to his feet. "Oh, you liked that, did you?" He wound up and punched Derek in the face. "That's for costing me a girl, bitch." He punched him again. "And that's for calling the pigs." He punched again. "That's for making me work to kill you."

  Every blow made lights flash behind Derek's eyes. He could taste blood, and he knew he was breathing blood. His heart thundered against his chest. Was this how he was going to go? Battered to death by an overfed redneck in a booth that smelled like Lindsey's sweaty feet?

  No. It wasn't. Bill stood up after only three punches. "If I'm going down for this, I might as well go whole hog." He aimed the gun again, and he pulled the trigger.

  Derek flinched. He didn't have anywhere to go, no way to dodge, but that little flinch was enough to keep the bullet out of his neck. It tore into his shoulder instead. He screamed as burning metal ripped into his skin. Nothing had ever hurt as much as that bullet did.

  "Drop the gun, now!" The State Trooper barking out the orders was female, but Derek couldn't see anything else about her. Something underneath him was wet. Had the bullet somehow broken a water line or something?

  Bill snickered. "Or what? You'll shoot me?" He aimed the gun outward, at the crowd.

  Someone fired.

  Bill shouted and grabbed at his gun hand. His gun—which was, indeed, a Colt—landed inches from Derek's face. Derek decided to be proud of his ability to recognize firearms as Bill shouted obscenities and kicked him in the ribs for good measure.

  State Troopers surged into the booth. They put cuffs on Bill, the bullet wound to his hand notwithstanding, and patted him down. The Colt turned out to not be the only weapon he was carrying. He had three other handguns on him, and a knife.

  Only now did any of the troopers in the booth notice Derek. "Oh, geez. This guy's lost a lot of blood," said the trooper who'd ordered Bill to drop the gun.

  Derek picked his head up as best he could. Blood would explain the wet feeling, he guessed. He'd be upset about that later, if there was a later. Right now, he just felt oddly detached from it all. Shock.

  "The mic is still on," he told her, when she bent down to check on him.

  "Oh Jesus Christ." She looked at the panel. After a moment, she shook her head and flipped the red master switch. "Sorry. Couldn't figure out how to just cut to commercial or whatever.

  "Dead air is the worst thing in the world for a radio station," Derek told her, and let his head fall down again. He couldn't hold it up anymore.

  "Someone get an ambulance for this guy." The trooper called out to her colleagues, but she sounded too far away for Derek. He didn't like ambulances. He just wanted to go to sleep. It had been a while since he'd had a chance to sleep anyway. He'd be perfectly comfortable right here on the floor. No one would bother him there. If someone would just bring him a blanket he'd be fine.

  Darkness closed in, and he welcomed it.

  ***

  Alex ducked as Rick tried to ruffle his hair. "Hey there, Stodgeball," the head of the emergency department told him. "Looks like we've got a big mess coming in."

&nb
sp; Alex shook his head. "I thought we just had a big mess come in. Semi crash ring a bell? Closed down the highway? Med flight?"

  Wade laughed. "Yeah, you'd think that, right? But no. That's so four hours ago, Alex. Try to keep up. We've got more State Fair fun."

  Alex got to his feet. Even though he continued to protest, the adrenaline was already flooding his veins. That adrenaline, much as he tried to avoid it in his everyday life, gave him the edge he needed in the operating room. "What've we got? Wrong way corn dog? Dippin' Dots disaster?"

  "Cute. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere, underneath the tie. No, there was a shooting." A shooting tied to human trafficking, no less." Wade led the way to the ambulance bay. Sure, the nurses could do the triage, and they could stabilize everyone, but why should they have to?